


Fishsticks and the Pilsbury Doughboy

by Twilit



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aprons, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:30:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twilit/pseuds/Twilit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fishpuns and dutiful boys in aprons.</p><p>Ok, one boy in an apron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fishsticks and the Pilsbury Doughboy

She storms in like she owns the place, brushing past you like a bit of breeze you can't control. By the time you've turned around, twin pigtails are disappearing into the kitchen.

"Sure, come on in Meenah!" you yell over your shoulder as you shut the door.

In the kitchen she's sitting on the counter in a huff. Solid gold bangles rest against her wrists and the counter. Her vaguely xenocanthic features are somewhere between a pout and a scowl. You'd call it adorable, except you're pretty sure she'd rip your throat out for it. She's like Karkat that way, except, you know, _actually bloodthirsty_.

You're not keen to test death protocols in this new world just yet.

"So what's up?"

She glares at you, about to snap at you, mouth opening. Then it claps shut like a trap and her jaw works. Wow, this must be important. Or at least difficult. You've never seen this half of Their Imperious Condescensions actually think about what she's about to say.

"You know a little somefin somefin about Serkets, yeah?" Her voice is the rasp of water across pebbles, a hiss like the roil of undertow, completely unlike Feferi's happy bubbling. You shrug.

"Well, I don't know about that. I mean, I still talk to Vriska, sure, but if this is going where I think it is..."

"Yeah, don't be getting clever with me here Little Buoy Blue, you an' I both know I'm glubbin' about Aranea."

"Hey so long as you're not expecting much of me."

"Shell, I don't expect much of anemone one."

You suppress a sad smile. The fishpuns, no matter how forced, were one of the things that made dealing with Meenah bearable. You head back to the sink to finish up the dishes.

"So," you begin again, "what's up?"

Apparently Meenah's had a moment to gather herself, because she starts up a rant.

"The lil' pirate is bein' all jelly that I'm off talkin' to the big fish on this here planet and is all like, "We hardly spend any time together anymore, Meenah!" an' then when I mackerel some time for her, she ain't efin in the right city because oh look, fuckin' Lalonde got her tentacles into her and's takin' her to sea some silly fuckin' writer and-"

And that's when Meenah seems to run out of breath. One gasp, then another and she vaults off your counter to start pacing the kitchen. You put away the last dish, dry your hands, and ask,

"I'm gonna make some hot chocolate, you want some?"

"Do I fuckin' look like I want some?! Arrrrgh!!"

Meenah spins around and nearly punches the wall, the lithe muscles under her skin tightening like cables. Your heart jumps for a moment and thank god she doesn't because you don't want to lose the wall. Trembling so hard her tails quiver and jangle with with their ornaments, she gives a frustrated scream. You busy yourself with the kettle.

"Have you talked to her about this?"

"Yeah! Just called her to ask what the shell!"

"...did you call her before this?"

"No, it was supposed to be a, a fuckin surprise! All spawntaneous an' shit." 

"Uh-huh." You pour the hot water and give the mix a stir. You lift it as if to sip it and like magic, Meenah's completed her circuit and snatches it from your grasp.

"Clammin' this as booty," she mutters while blowing at the liquid. You pour yourself more into the second cup you took down. Opening a cupboard, you bring down a bag of container of Chips Ahoy. The tray's not even halfway out the bag before Meenah's silently ganked the first line from it, so fast all you can see is a grey and gold blur with a hint of fuchsia nails. 

Cheeks stuff with cookies, crumbles down her front, Meenah hops back up onto the counter and miraculously avoids getting any hot chocolate on her. The floor, on the other hand, has no such luck. She ignores the splash and sips experimentally at the liquid. You make a face as she swishes it through her mouth as if to really try and understand the taste, but really to be as rude and uncouth as possible. Idly, you wonder if she acts like this when having tea with the Queen.

 _Of course_ she does.

"Why do Serkets gotta be all, all..." She gesticulates wildly at the air. 

As you look for a rag, you venture, "Capricious? Unpredictable? ...flaky?"

"Ha! Knew I liked you for reason, doofish." 

In the time it's taken you to bend down, open a drawer, get a rag, Meenah has ripped open and tipped over a bag of sugar, emptied half your fridge onto the counter and is, appropriately enough, eating tuna salad from a Rubbermaid container. With what looks suspiciously like the spoon with which she must have stirred the sugar into her chocolate. There's an appreciative gleam in her eyes and a half-formed smirk on her face.

"Sho yeah. Fuckin' Sherketsh. Fuckin' shellfish is what they is," she says through a mouthful of fish and mayo.

You look at the disaster zone that's become of your kitchen and have to wonder if she does this on porpoise. Then you catch yourself and start laughing. Meenah, naturally, thinks you're laughing at her and starts berating you, waving the tablespoon at you and getting tuna salad everywhere. You can only laugh harder and withstand the barrage because this is how Meenah shows affection, shows her love and loneliness, a barrage of abuse and attention. _Look at me, hate me, love me, like me, look at me even a little._

Eventually, she stops, chews thoughtfully and asks,

"What the hell are you whalin'?"

And you look down at your apron, now splattered in mayo, celery and _is that an entire egg?_ You look up at her with a mischievious grin plastered on your face.

"Peixes armour."

\--

When Jane comes home, she finds the kitchen completely clean. 

The living room however, where John and the fishbitch are watching Finding Nemo again, bears the personal imprint of Meenah Peixes by virtue of being _a coddamn disaster_.

**Author's Note:**

> I really like the idea of a household where John is the stayathomewhatever because goddamn, I really like aprons.


End file.
